Zion watched the riders approach cautiously, moonlight glinting off the polished steel of their curved blades. They halted their horses at a careful distance, forming a loose half-circle around Zion and the dwarves. Their head coverings partially obscured their faces, but their eyes, sharp and wary, peered out from beneath dark cloth. The two large hounds that accompanied them paced restlessly, eyes gleaming in the firelight as saliva dripped from their exposed teeth.

  Zion tightened his grip on the sword, letting out a low, rumbling growl. His golden eyes narrowed, ears flicking back as he stared defiantly at the newcomers.

  The leader of the riders raised one hand in a gesture of peace, though his other hand remained resting on the pommel of his weapon.

  "We mean no harm,!"

  Zion hesitated, momentarily caught off-guard by the unfamiliar word. He glanced briefly toward the dwarves, uncertain.

  "Suhadik?" he asked quietly.

  Grundhill leaned closer, speaking softly. "It means ' in their tongue, lad. At least that's what I recall."

  Zion nodded once, slowly lowering his sword slightly—but not completely.

  The merchants sat upright in their saddles, exchanging brief glances with each other. There was a tension about them, an unease that set Zion's nerves on edge. He could sense they were testing him, gauging his reaction.

  "What is your business here, travelers?" Zion called out firmly, his tone neither friendly nor hostile—simply authoritative, measured.

  The lead rider shifted slightly, exchanging glances with his companions before turning his attention back to Zion.

  "We travel to trade, friend. We carry no ill intent."

  Zion narrowed his golden eyes. He didn't lower his sword. "What kind of merchants travel armed at night with such beasts at their sides?"

  The lead rider chuckled, though the laughter held no warmth. "These roads are treacherous, . Only fools travel unarmed."

  Zion inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point. "Fair enough. And what is it you sell?"

  A pause stretched out as the riders exchanged another glance. Then the leader spoke once more, this time in a language unfamiliar and harsh to Zion's ears.

  Zion shot a questioning glance toward the dwarves, who looked uneasy. Artoril leaned in close, whispering quietly in Zion's direction.

  "I believe he said ye ask too many questions, lad."

  Zion's eyes narrowed slightly, his grip tightening instinctively upon his blade. The moonlight flickered off its edge, casting a sharp, cold glow.

  "I see," Zion replied cautiously, addressing the merchants again. "And what manner of merchants grow uneasy when asked of their goods?"

  The Amif riders stirred, their horses shifting beneath them, pawing at the dry earth. Their leader seemed to weigh his response carefully.

  "Too many questions make men nervous," he replied simply, though his tone carried a subtle warning beneath its surface.

  Zion tilted his head slightly, watching the men with guarded intensity. "Perhaps too few answers lead to distrust," he said.

  One of the dwarves, Artoril, leaned in closer, whispering again, "Careful now, lad. They're testing ye, measuring ye."

  But Zion did not waver, nor did he lower his blade. He stood his ground, waiting for the riders' response.

  At last, the leader spoke again, his voice low and cautious. "We carry coin,. We seek to trade for your iron. We would inspect your wares."

  Grundhill and Artoril exchanged wary glances, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Zion did not miss the hesitation in their posture.

  "And if we refuse?" Zion asked plainly, keeping his tone neutral, though his eyes gleamed dangerously in the firelight.

  The Amif merchant straightened in his saddle, his expression hardening beneath the shadows cast by his head-covering.

  "Then I shall believe you are merchants in name alone—pretenders, thieves, or worse."

  Grundhill and Artoril exchanged troubled glances. They were wary, knowing the risk of confrontation, yet unwilling to simply concede to demands without protest.

  Grundhill stepped forward slightly, nodding at the merchants. "Come, come. We'll show ye our metal," he said loudly, his voice falsely jovial, but Zion could hear the underlying tension.

  Then Grundhill subtly whispered to Zion, his voice low and hurried, "Patience, lad. We might talk our way clear, yet."

  The riders nudged their horses forward, cautiously approaching the firelight. Zion stood firm, sword drawn, ready but unmoving, his muscles tensed beneath the armor. The dogs circled closer, sniffing the air hungrily, low growls rumbling deep in their throats.

  The tension hung heavy, palpable.

  Zion understood the threat plainly—these men had not truly come seeking trade. Their interest lay in theft, violence, or worse. And yet, he did not strike first, he waited, sword ready, eyes locked upon the merchants as they approached, wondering silently when—or if—the first blow would fall.

  The leader of the riders slid gracefully from his saddle, his booted feet landing softly upon the packed dirt. His companions remained atop their mounts, vigilant eyes scanning the surroundings. The firelight danced on their scimitars and chainmail, casting shifting patterns of shadow upon their tense bodies.

  Grundhill, maintaining a composed, almost casual demeanor, moved deliberately toward the large wooden crate resting in the wagon bed. With a heavy, creaking motion, he lifted the lid, revealing neatly stacked iron ingots alongside rough, dark ore—some polished and pure, others raw and waiting for the furnace's refining touch.

  "So, these are our wares, lad," Grundhill announced plainly, though Zion caught the subtle edge beneath his voice. ", good for the forge, or iron ingot, ready for yer craftsmen. Take yer pick."

  The stranger approached cautiously, eyes narrowed, inspecting the gleaming bars of iron in the firelight. His gloved hand ran across the smooth surface of an ingot, and he examined it closely, as if gauging its weight, its worth.

  "How much?" the rider asked quietly, his voice measured and neutral, revealing nothing.

  Grundhill did not hesitate in his response, voice steady and confident. "Oh, these will go what… two gold per pound."

  The stranger exhaled slowly, lips curling into a thin, cold smile. "Quite expensive," he murmured, clearly unimpressed.

  Grundhill straightened, chest puffing slightly with pride. "Dwarf ore is pure ore, lad. Ye humans would spend yer whole life scrounging up dirty rocks before ye come close to understandin' what good ore truly is."

  A brief silence fell, heavy and charged with unspoken tension. The rider turned again toward the wagon, his attention fixed intently on the neatly arranged iron. He reached forward again, considering carefully, his fingertips brushing against the cool metal.

  "What if I want ten ingots?" the stranger finally inquired, his tone flat, almost disinterested—but Zion noted how the man's posture tensed ever so slightly at the question.

  Grundhill raised a brow, folding his arms across his chest as he shifted his weight. "Quite a stash, no, lad?" he remarked casually, but Zion could sense the suspicion lying beneath the dwarf's careful expression.

  The stranger merely nodded. "Yes," he replied calmly, still inspecting the metal with careful deliberation.

  "Quite far from Amif to be buying dwarf ore," Grundhill observed slowly, letting the statement hang in the cool night air, his voice becoming slightly more skeptical.

  The stranger straightened slightly, eyes narrowing. "Yes," he said again, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

  In the flickering firelight, Zion's grip on his sword tightened instinctively, senses alert and ears perked forward, tail flicking in agitation. Something felt off—something did not sit right. He eyed the two mounted companions, noticing the stiffness of their posture, their tense silence.

  Grundhill’s hand subtly drifted beneath the cloak he wore, fingers moving slowly, imperceptibly, to the dagger concealed beneath the heavy fabric.

  "And yer merchants from Amif?" Grundhill pressed further, his voice taking on a quiet edge, cautious and probing, watching the stranger closely for any reaction.

  The man's jaw tensed visibly, his patience thinning. "Yes," he responded curtly, attempting to maintain his casual composure, though Zion could detect an edge of irritation now underlying his voice.

  The man slowly glanced at Zion, his eyes narrowing.

  Grundhill raised his chin slightly, eyes sharp, voice low and even, but unmistakably skeptical. "Quite a long way fer merchants, are ye sure?"

  The man's gaze snapped at Grundhill, dark eyes narrowing sharply in sudden annoyance. "Of course, ," he spat, venom coloring his voice as irritation gave way to anger.

  Zion did not need a translation; the contempt in the rider's voice was clear enough. His muscles tensed, tail flicking sharply behind him.

  "So where's yer wagon?" Grundhill asked quietly, his voice now openly suspicious, gaze hard and direct.

  The stranger stiffened, the carefully maintained mask of neutrality finally breaking apart. With sudden fury, he hissed through clenched teeth, "You just couldn't stay quiet, could you?"

  In a flash of motion, the man reached swiftly beneath his cloak, fingers grasping the hilt of his scimitar. Zion surged forward, but Grundhill had already anticipated the movement. In a blur of surprising speed for a dwarf of his age, Grundhill's hidden dagger flashed from its hiding place beneath the cloak, catching the firelight as he plunged the blade deep into the rider's side.

  The man's sword slid halfway from its sheath before his grip slackened. His eyes widened in surprise and sudden pain, mouth open in a silent cry. Grundhill pressed forward firmly, forcing the blade deeper as he leaned close to whisper in the rider’s ear:

  "I'm over two hundred years old, lad. Cheap tricks don't work on this old sack."

  With a grunt of agony, the rider's legs buckled beneath him, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground at his feet. The camp erupted into instant chaos.

  The moment exploded into chaos. The two remaining riders spurred their horses, hooves pounding against the dirt as they circled Zion like vultures. Their scimitars glinted in the firelight, arcs of deadly steel seeking an opening. The dogs, trained hunters, rushed forward, their snarling fangs bared as they lunged.

  Zion braced himself.

  The first dog leapt, its jaws snapping for his throat. He caught it mid-air, powerful arms wrapping around the beast’s torso. But before he could react further, the second dog struck from the side, its sharp teeth sinking deep into his wrist, the same arm that held his sword. Pain flared up his arm as the animal twisted its head, trying to rip through flesh.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A rider galloped past, taking advantage of Zion’s distraction, his scimitar swinging in a vicious arc toward Zion’s exposed back. The steel met resistance—his armor, simple but sturdy, absorbed the brunt of the strike, but the force sent him stumbling forward. The first dog wriggled violently in his grasp, growling and clawing, struggling to break free.

  Zion’s golden eyes burned with fury.

  With a savage growl of his own, he lifted the dog in his grasp and, in a display of raw strength, hurled it directly at the rider. The animal crashed into the man’s chest, causing him to teeter wildly in his saddle. The horse reared up, nearly throwing its master as the dog yelped in pain. But the horse strode forward, kept his pace now his balance restablished.

  The second hound, still clamped onto his forearm, snarled, but Zion had had enough. His free hand shot forward, claws unsheathing. With brutal efficiency, he raked them across the dog’s neck, tearing through its flesh. The creature let out a choked whimper before collapsing at his feet.

  But Zion wasn’t done.

  His nostrils flared, his breath heaving. He reached down, gripping the limp hound by the loose skin of its back. The beast had barely enough life left to whimper, but that mercy would not last. With a burst of primal rage, Zion lifted it high above his head.

  And then, in a single violent motion, he sank his powerful leonine fangs deep into its throat.

  Warm blood flooded his mouth, metallic and thick. The dog spasmed weakly in his grasp before going still. He did not stop. He wrenched his head back, sharp canines slicing through muscle and tendon, ripping flesh from bone in a grotesque display of dominance.

  The two riders skidded their horses to a halt, eyes wide in horror.

  With a sickening rip, Zion tore the dog’s head free from its body, the spine snapping as tendons dangled loosely from the severed flesh. He spat out the remains onto the ground, his light beige fur now streaked crimson, blood dripping from his chin down his neck. His breath was heavy, ragged, his golden eyes burning with fury.

  And then he roared.

  It was not a battle cry.

  It was something deeper, something primal, something ancient.

  It was the roar of a beast unchained.

  The riders recoiled instinctively, their hands tightening on their reins. The remaining hound, the last survivor, battered but not broken, whimpered but still obeyed its training, rushing forward with desperation. Zion moved faster. His foot shot forward, crushing down onto the dog’s back with a sickening crunch. Before it could even yelp, he raised his sword.

  The blade came down in a single, merciless stroke.

  Blood splattered across the dirt, steam rising from the fresh corpse in the cold night air.

  From behind him, Artoril watched in stunned silence, his hands fumbling to help his father. His face was pale, his breath unsteady. This was not the clean, controlled combat of disciplined mercenaries. This was raw, savage, terrifying. He had never seen a man—or a beast—fight with such unrestrained brutality.

  "SICK ANIMAL!" one of the riders screamed, his voice a mix of rage and fear. "WE’LL PUT YOU DOWN!"

  The other, his face twisted in disgust, spat out a curse in his native tongue. ""

  Zion didn’t know what the words meant.

  He didn’t care.

  The riders spurred their horses again, charging in tandem, blades raised. Zion braced himself, his muscles coiled with tension.

  Like vultures, they descended.

  The first swung his scimitar in a wide arc, aiming for Zion’s head. Zion ducked low, the blade slicing harmlessly through the air. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his sword swinging—not for the rider, but for the horse.

  The steel bit deep into the animal’s knee.

  The horse screamed in agony, rearing violently. The rider, caught off guard by the sudden movement, lost control. His balance wavered, and before he could regain it, gravity won.

  He tumbled from the saddle.

  The night air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, the echoes of snarls and steel still lingering between the panting breaths of men and beast alike. The wounded horse stumbled back, its rider scrambling to regain his footing, his sandaled boots scraping against the hard-packed dirt. The man’s face twisted in fury and pain as he steadied himself, his scimitar gleaming beneath the moonlight, raised in defiance.

  "I will kill you, vile monster," he spat through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear.

  The word rang through the air like a curse. That word he knew.

  Zion's golden eyes flashed with unbridled wrath. The insult only fueled the fire already burning in his chest. He did not hesitate. With a snarl rumbling deep in his throat, he lunged forward, his heavy boots kicking up dirt as he closed the distance between them. The bandit moved quickly, raising his scimitar in defense, but Zion was faster.

  Their blades met in a violent clash of steel against steel.

  The force of the impact reverberated through Zion’s arms, but he held firm, pushing against his opponent with sheer brute strength. The bandit gritted his teeth, his muscles straining, but he was no match for Zion’s raw, leonine power.

  Still, the human was no fool—he knew his blade alone would not hold against the strength of a beast.

  But Zion had already anticipated his next move.

  Before the man could shift his footing for a counterattack, Zion’s left paw shot forward, claws unsheathing in a blur of motion. His talons raked across the right side of the man’s face, tearing through skin, cartilage, and bone with sickening ease.

  The sound was grotesque.

  A sharp pop followed by a wet, hollow crack.

  The bandit's scream tore through the night as his body jerked violently, his hands releasing the hilt of his sword as they flew to his face, clutching the gory ruin where his eye had once been.

  "AARGH!" His howl was one of agony, of terror, of a man who knew he had just lost something he would never regain.

  Zion wasted no time.

  With ruthless precision, he raised his sword high, muscles flexing, preparing to deliver the final strike—a merciful death.

  But the mercy never came.

  A sharp, searing pain erupted across his right arm.

  The second rider, still on horseback, had returned.

  The scimitar bit deep into the flesh of Zion’s already wounded limb, the jagged wound from the dog’s bite splitting further under the new assault. A thick warmth spread across his forearm, blood soaking through his fur, drenching his grip.

  "ERRRGH!" Zion let out a guttural growl, his sword hand momentarily faltering as pain pulsed through his nerves like fire.

  The bandit on the ground writhed, still clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his fingers in thick rivulets. He screamed, but Zion barely heard him. His focus had already shifted.

  The rider pulled hard on the reins, forcing his steed to circle back, preparing for another charge.

  Zion turned, eyes locking onto the mounted warrior.

  The rider adjusted his grip, scimitar gleaming red with Zion’s blood. His horse pawed at the ground, muscles coiled for the second strike.

  Zion tightened his grip on his own blade, ignoring the burning ache in his arm. His lips curled, fangs bared, golden eyes reflecting the firelight.

  They locked gazes.

  The rider charged.

  And Zion stood his ground.

  In the dim firelight, Grundhill stood his ground, his dagger gripped tightly in his left hand, his stance wide and steady. The bandit chief before him—taller, leaner, younger—sneered as he circled the old dwarf like a jackal sizing up its prey. His own dagger was drawn, its curved blade catching the flickering glow of the campfire.

  "Oh, lad," Grundhill said with a grin, shifting his weight slightly as he adjusted his grip. "Ye didn't expect me to be a leftie, now did ye?"

  The bandit’s expression twisted into something between irritation and amusement. "Old sack of shit," he spat, rolling his shoulders. "I'll rip you clean."

  Without hesitation, the man lunged forward, his blade flashing toward the dwarf’s throat. But Grundhill was ready—decades of experience in the mines and the battlefield had honed his reflexes sharper than any steel. He pivoted just enough to let the blade scrape harmlessly against the reinforced plates of his armor. A spark flickered where metal met metal, and the bandit stumbled back, his momentum wasted.

  Grundhill chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Ah, that was a good swing, lad. But if ye’d spent half as much time buying steel as ye do swingin’ it like a drunkard, ye might actually have stood a chance."

  The bandit snarled, retreating a step before lunging again, slashing wildly. But Grundhill was already moving. He ducked low, his squat frame making him a difficult target, and as the bandit's blade sailed past his head, the dwarf struck—his booted foot slamming into the man's shin.

  The bandit let out a sharp curse as he staggered back, his balance momentarily lost.

  "Told ye, dwarf ore’s good quality," Grundhill mused, standing back up to his full height. He dusted off his cloak, now torn at the edges where the bandit's blade had caught it. "Maybe ye should've bought some instead of tryin’ to steal it."

  With a growl, the bandit surged forward again, dagger flashing in a downward arc. This time, Grundhill met the strike directly, steel clashing against steel with a sharp ring. Their blades locked, their arms shaking with exertion.

  Then the bandit did something unexpected—he twisted sharply, using the momentum to drive his knee hard into Grundhill’s stomach.

  The impact forced a grunt from the old dwarf, but he barely moved.

  "Oh..." Grundhill wheezed slightly, though his tone was more amused than pained. "That was a pretty powerful kick, that one." He chuckled, stepping back. "Maybe stick to that now—"

  The bandit’s eyes suddenly shifted, flicking past the dwarf.

  Grundhill frowned.

  "What."

  He realized his mistake an instant too late.

  The rider, the last one still on horseback, had never intended to fight Zion directly, at least not now. His earlier attacks had been nothing more than a feint—distraction and misdirection. Now, as Zion moved to strike, the horseman veered off, his sword sweeping outward in a wide arc—not to attack, but to force Zion back.

  Then, without warning, the rider tore past him.

  Straight toward Grundhill.

  Zion turned sharply, his breath catching as he saw the charging steed, its heavy hooves thundering across the dirt. The rider leaned forward in the saddle, his sword low, his speed unchecked.

  Grundhill barely had time to turn his head.

  "Oh—ow," was all he managed before the full force of the horse crashed into him.

  The impact was brutal.

  Grundhill was lifted clean off his feet, his stout frame colliding with the armored chest of the steed before being thrown violently backward. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, dust kicking up around him as his body skidded to a stop. His dagger flew from his grip, landing several feet away.

  For a heartbeat, everything was still.

  Then he let out a groan, his chest rising and falling as he lay sprawled on the dirt.

  Now the rider decided it was time to face the lion.

  Zion’s breath came steady, his muscles coiled as he turned to face the last rider. The man had not fled. No, he was coming straight for him—his scimitar raised high, gleaming under the pale moonlight.

  Zion did not flinch.

  The hooves thundered against the dry earth, the sound reverberating through his bones. The rider leaned forward in the saddle, his dark eyes locked onto Zion, his blade poised to carve through flesh and bone alike.

  Zion waited.

  Then, in an instant, he moved.

  A burst of raw, primal speed propelled him forward. Instead of meeting the rider's blade head-on, Zion ducked low at the last moment, his claws pressed against the horse’s side. He could feel the heat of the animal’s body beneath his palm, the powerful muscles straining as it galloped at full speed. Then, with a savage swipe, his claws tore into flesh.

  The horse let out a horrific scream.

  A visceral, gut-wrenching noise, the sound of agony and fear. Blood spilled onto the ground in thick ribbons, intestines unraveling like wet rope as the beast buckled mid-stride. Its front legs collapsed beneath it, its momentum sending its body flipping over itself in a chaotic, spiraling crash.

  The rider barely had time to react.

  "OH!" he cried, his eyes going wide with sheer terror as his body was flung violently forward. But there was no grace to his landing—no rolling recovery, no chance to rise and fight again.

  The heavy mass of the dying horse came down over him with a sickening, bone-shattering crunch.

  The sound echoed through the silent desert.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the ragged gasps of the pinned man, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, his limbs caught beneath the carcass. His face contorted in agony, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips as he struggled feebly against the crushing weight.

  Zion approached slowly.

  His grip on his sword remained firm, though his arm was slick with the blood seeping down its hilt. He walked with purpose, his golden eyes never leaving the broken form before him.

  "You value your life at a very low price," Zion muttered, his voice calm, almost disappointed.

  The bandit let out a choked cough, his fingers twitching toward the dagger at his belt, but the effort was futile. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt and snarled through the pain.

  "DIE, SHEYTAN!"

  Zion wasted no time.

  He raised his blade in both hands, its steel glinting crimson under the moonlight, and drove it down through the man’s chest.

  The body jerked violently, a ragged gasp escaping the dying bandit's lips before his lungs collapsed. His hands grasped weakly at the blade impaling him, then fell limp.

  Then, something strange happened.

  The blood that seeped from the wound did not merely stain the earth. It shimmered—faintly at first, then with an unmistakable glow.

  Zion felt it.

  A pulse. A warmth that climbed up the blade, coiling around the steel like a living thing. It traveled up to the hilt, then into his arms, sinking into his flesh like an old whisper finding its way home.

  Then came the sensation—his wounds, his cuts, his aching bruises from the earlier struggle. The sting of torn muscle and torn skin... fading. The magic crawled beneath his fur, knitting his flesh together, mending his form with the stolen life of his enemy.

  He inhaled sharply.

  The sword, his sword—the heirloom of Ortho Heliondor—trembled in his grip.

  Zion's gaze flickered down to it, his expression unreadable.

  "You never disappointed me, Arana," he whispered.

  The warmth faded. The glow receded. The night was quiet once more.

  But the battle was not over.

  Across the clearing, Grundhill Ironvein was locked in a desperate struggle. The older dwarf, seasoned as he was, had been taken off guard when the horse had barreled into him earlier. Now, he was on his back, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, his gauntleted hands straining against the weight of the bandit chief pressing down on him.

  The man was atop him, dagger poised, its tip quivering above Grundhill’s face as he struggled to drive it downward. The dwarf’s thick, calloused fingers gripped the bandit’s wrists, but gravity favored the human, his arms trembling as he fought to hold back the inevitable.

  "DIE ALREADY!" the bandit snarled, his muscles straining, his strength fueled by desperation.

  Grundhill gritted his teeth. His arms burned, his shoulders screamed in protest. He had held firm in the mines, fought in wars, had bested men twice this bastard’s size. But gravity was against him, and his age was showing.

  For the first time, he realized—I might lose this.

  He clenched his teeth, his grip faltering by mere inches as the dagger drew closer, the sharp point mere breaths away from his throat.

  "My soul is not ready fer Duras yet," he muttered, his eyes squeezing shut.

  Then, before the final struggle could end—

  A whisper in the air.

  The faintest hiss.

  Then—a crack.

  Grundhill felt the weight atop him shift.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The bandit's body had stiffened, his expression frozen in shock.

  Then Grundhill saw it.

  The tip of an arrow protruding from the man’s left eye.

  For half a breath, the bandit still clung to life, his fingers twitching in a futile attempt to move. Then the light left his remaining eye, and his body slumped forward, lifeless.

  Grundhill wasted no time.

  With a grunt, he shoved the corpse off of him, rolling to the side as the body hit the dirt with a dull thud.

  The old dwarf let out a long breath before pushing himself to his feet, adjusting his now-muddied cloak. He glanced down at the corpse, his nose wrinkling slightly before he turned his gaze toward the source of the arrow.

  Artoril stood there, his short bow still raised, his breath uneven. The younger dwarf’s fingers trembled slightly around the grip, his knuckles white from the tension.

  Grundhill studied him for a moment.

  Then, in a gruff but approving tone, he muttered, "Good shot, laddie."

  Artoril exhaled sharply, lowering his bow, his face still pale.

  The night fell quiet again.